


Five deals Crowley never closed (and one still pending)

by Diomedes



Category: Batman (Comics), Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Heroes (TV), Supernatural, The X-Files
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Multiple Crossovers, five things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 17:25:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1656497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diomedes/pseuds/Diomedes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five deals Crowley never managed to make (not for lack of trying), and a sixth he won't let slip through his fingers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five deals Crowley never closed (and one still pending)

**Author's Note:**

> To clear up confusion:
> 
> [ _gentlemen. you can't fight in here. this is Hell._ ] - Oppenheimer  
> [ _a tenuous house on ridiculous earth_ ] - Batman  
> [ _a friend in need's a fiend's wet dream_ ] - Xander Harris, BtVS  
> [ _the truth is out there. in a hockey mask. with a machete._ ] - Alex Krycek, X-files  
> [ _the first rule of demon club is shut your fucking mouth_ ] - Sylar, Heroes  
> [ _whiskey bottle, at thy bottom, be all my sins remember'd_ ] - Dean Winchester, Supernatural
> 
> Crowley's also allowed to do whatever he wants to in this fic (aka go looking for souls to make deals with). If something is terribly wrong, please let me know.

He's been turned down before of course. The usual boring reasons – fear, surprise, a fanatical devotion to the Pope. But since he's positioned himself as King, he's made sure there's a special VIP room for those who were less than magnanimous in spurning his propositions. 

[ _gentlemen. you can't fight in here. this is Hell._ ]

This one he visits personally. It's not often he makes house calls, but exceptions are made for exceptional cases.

“You don't look like the Destroyer of Worlds.” 

The figure in the office doesn't even startle, Crowley must be losing his touch. The thin, distracted silver-haired man doesn't look like much in a tweed suit. It annoys him. The infamous should dress appropriately, they have an image to uphold. It's shattering enough to his self-esteem that the most dangerous men of this century are stodgy, aging scientists without their insistence on pedestrian clothing. 

“Could you undo it? All of it? All of our work?” A thin voice asks. _All that glorious destruction._

“Could I stuff the Genie back into the bottle you mean? Spirit the fire back up Olympus?”

Crowley flashes a three megaton smile, opening negotiations. 

“Of course I can't.” Too many pieces, too many people, just too much. 

Even if he were inclined, the science would catch up in a decade or so and BOOM, back to ground zero. Literally. And while Crowley's marching orders are to gather souls he's pretty sure he's supposed to wait before starting the Apocalypse. Not that the man in front of him had minded that last instruction. Crowley's just here to offer the consolation prize. 

“For a soul as tarnished as yours though? I can make sure your name isn't synonymous with Pandora for the rest of the much-shortened life of this world.” 

The man dismisses him with a gesture, “No deal.” 

Crowley smiles, they always say that. 

“Oh come now, your own government doesn't trust you, your colleagues hate you, you've effectively started the end of the world, what's a little deal going to do to you now?”

“Nothing.” the scientist's tone preposterously even given the circumstances, “But you've admitted you do not have the solution to the problem I _do_ have.” 

Crowley expects more but finds he's being ignored. No not ignored – meted and measured, found wanting and discarded. _You made your own goddam problem you bastard, you fix it then_. 

He walks back to the crossroads alone, and waits and waits and waits for mushroom clouds that never come. 

 

[ _a tenuous house on ridiculous earth_ ]

Gotham's a good three hours out of his way but a bet's a bet and Crowley can't pass up a challenge. 

Five hours in and Crowley's beginning to realize he's been had. The first thing he notices is the only thing more insane than the criminals who live here are the criminals intent on catching them. 

The second thing he realizes is that maybe taking hostages at an art gallery was not the best way to get his target's attention, but if Crowley were incapable of negotiating while dangling over the edge of a skyscraper he wouldn't be a professional. 

_“What are you doing in my city?”_

Who growls while interrogating someone? But honestly, the rain is ruining Crowley's suit and while not a catsuit, green lycra, or a clown outfit, he's still partial to it. 

“Mr. Wayne, if we could take this discussion inside I would be much obliged.”

To his credit the bat freak doesn't drop him off the building right then and there. Once inside Crowley makes a show of wicking water off his suit jacket. The Cowl just stares. Not a talker, this one.

“My name is Crowley. I provide services for individuals who find themselves in jams. For a fee of course. But my offers are always quite fair.”

_“I know what you are demon, I asked what you were doing in my city.”_

“To make you an offer of course.”

No reaction, which Crowley is taking as a step up from outright violence. Sales pitch time.

“Thomas and Martha Wayne were murdered in an alley in front of their eight year old son. I can bring them back, I can give you everything you never had. No jumping off buildings in weird bondage bat gear, no creepy uncle butler, no terribly lonely birthday parties... and for you, I'll waive the usual fee.” 

The bet was technically to get him to accept the deal, not to pay up. He'd rather lose a soul than a bet. 

_“You're a demon. You belong in Hell. Get out of my city before I find a way to send you back.”_

Crowley rolls his eyes and glances out the window at the rain. When he turns back, Tall Dark and Insane is gone. _I guess that was his answer._

He nonetheless spends the rest of the day on his best behaviour until Mazikeen picks him up at the train station, laughing. 

“Not even Ole silver-tongued you could break the Caped Crusader, eh?”

“That man broke a long time ago. The city'll finish him off.” 

It better. A man like that could wreak havoc. 

 

[ _a friend in need's a fiend's wet dream_ ]

There are many portals into Hell and Crowley has always preferred his private entrance. Unfortunately this time the conquering villain has been left to return through run-down Southern California. 

_Sunnydale. Enjoy your stay._

Crowley rolls his eyes. Someone Downstairs is trying too hard. 

He ducks into a small “Magic” shop to wait it out. He's surprised at the number of genuine articles tucked away. He might even consider stealing something, a backhanded compliment in it's own way.

“Do you need help finding anything?” An accent. RP English. How very proper. 

“No. Thank you. Just looking 'round.”

He forgets when he adopted his own (notably lower-class) London accent. He was never keen on the English while alive, but demonically, you had to give ambitious conquering it's due. 

The bell attached to the door clangs loudly. 

“Giles! Willow said something about an eggshell-nightshade thingy otherwise the spell won't hold him much longer!” 

The dark-haired boy spots Crowley and recovers. Or tries to. “You know, for the recipe... The game night recipe. Dungeons and Dragons. My player's a troll. How are you?”

Crowley smiles, “I enjoy a game of D&D myself sometimes.” _Technically only half a lie._

“Right, well... our friend is in trouble with a _water demon_ and we need our Dungeon Master to sort it out with _eggshell and nightshade_. Like. _Right now._ ”

Adult Supervision is already out the door with a briefcase, but Crowley didn't get where he is without a knack for spotting opportunities. _A friend in mortal peril_ , the classic set-up. 

“Listen, I know why your friend is in danger. Adaro, right?” The boy's eyes widen in surprise. Crowley's confident he has him hooked, “I can get her out. Now, I'd need something from you – ”

“Listen Mister, thanks for the offer but we're not going to risk it taking another innocent person.” 

Crowley briefly wonders what students are watching these days that men with British accents in black-on-black tailored suits are thought to be selfless Good Guys. 

“My friend Willow, she's got this. Don't worry.” 

So Crowley doesn't. It's no skin off his nose if the girl dies, or if the boy dies, or if the Earth opens up and swallows Sunnydale whole. They can't save everyone forever.

They roll the dice every time they try. 

 

[ _the truth is out there. in a hockey mask. with a machete._ ]

He's in DC to fill a quota. Year's up and a couple souls short? Washington D.C. Politicians and poverty. Violence and vendettas. God's gift to demons Washingtonians, they'll give it up to anybody.

Crowley's overdressed for this place but no one bats an eye. His mark is sitting at the end of the bar, sipping vodka, the sign of a man here for a slow and steady burn. It takes practice and an utter lack of hope to drink like that.

The man fits the rougher dress code, but is at least ten years younger and a great deal more attractive than anyone here. Crowley's got money on spurned lover of some closeted political bigwig. So does at least one other patron who leans in to lend a comforting ear and ends up flat on his back in a flurry of violence that looks anything but uncontrolled. Training then. _Bodyguard who's charge died?_

The mark pays up and walks out. Crowley almost lets him go – it's DC, opportunities abound – but curiosity killed the cat and _screw it_ Crowley was always more of a hound person anyways. 

He catches up to the man in the parking lot, staring at the sky just as snow starts to fall.

“Looking for angels?” Crowley smiles beatifically. _Religious runaway?_ He should be so lucky. 

“Alien colonists actually.” Cutting without mirth. _Someone needs work on their sarcasm delivery._

The man produces a gun and Crowley raises his empty hands. That's when he notices the awkward movement in the mark's left arm. Prosthesis. Maybe this wild goose chase can be salvaged after all. 

“I can give you your arm back, you know.” A flash of interest, he's said the right thing. 

“Yeah, and what do you want from me?”

Alarm bells go off in Crowley's head. Normally walk-ups need a display of supernatural power to nudge them along. Apparently crazy people don't. 

“Your soul. I'd own it. Think of it as your own personal deal with the devil.”

The man snorts, truly amused, “How do you think I lost the arm?”

_Not a soldier then._ Crowley is normally much better at this game and it's starting to piss him off. It would take nothing for him to rip away the gun, and then rip off the arm holding it for good measure. 

But the moment he rises and his host's eyes go black the bastard shoots him. Twice. In the head. 

_Not a hunter either._ There's no pain of course, no special bullets and the body's already dead but Crowley rather likes this one. Once he fixes himself up he's going to hunt the man down and make him pay. _Despite the fact you have no idea who he is or what he does._

Green-eyed, gun-toting, one-armed, alien-believing, tipsy murderers, who _don't_ do deals with demons. 

How many of those could there be in DC?

 

[ _the first rule of demon club is shut your fucking mouth_ ]

Crowley hates being summoned. But rules are rules are godforsaken rules. 

It's not entirely certain which one of them is more surprised: Crowley, suddenly appearing in his Sunday best inside a crudely drawn pentagram, or the man with bloodied fingers sifting through the old woman's freshly removed brain. 

The curious case of the killer in the attic. Crowley, to his credit, recovers first. 

“Hi there! Bad time? I'll just be going.” This one certainly doesn't need any help on his way down.

“No.” The man speaks softly, intent now on the new visitor. “Stay.”

Crowley's misjudged his opening line. Silence or screaming he could have interpreted as _you're free to go sir_ , but humans have this _No means No policy_ which binds him here. Not that this psychotic stranger knows that. 

“Alright Dr. Lector, but you should know I don't put out on the first date.”

The man's gaze shifts from Crowley's face to his custom Italian leather shoes. The man doesn't seem the type to admire expensive taste. _Please keep your arms, legs and shoes firmly inside the symbolic pentagram cage._ Shit. The serial killer seems to note the apparent imprisonment.

“You're not human. You're something else. That's what the old woman could do. She could call to you.” 

The revelation lights the man's dark eyes. Inside Crowley's head a neon sign flicks on: _Not good._

“So what are you? And what are the rules? What can you tell me?” Apt pupil Crowley's found. 

“You'd owe me your soul first. That's the way this works.” 

“How much?” Contemplative. 

“Oh, just a sliver of it I can entomb in a Horcrux. No, you moron. All of it. Forever.”

The man reaches into the circle and flicks Crowley's host body's forehead as if he were a particularly slow child and not a denizen of Hell. 

“How much of this for my soul?” _Knowledge. Knowledge is power. Power is awesome. And you don't become King **giving** it away._

Marlowe was much more eloquent when he put this interlude to paper all those years ago. Crowley is nowhere near as wimpy as Mephistopheles, though Doctor Faustus was also hella less hands on. 

“Nope.” There are some deals you don't make. “No deal.”

And with that the old woman's two minutes are up, her spell releases. Crowley gives a wink, blows a kiss, and gets the hell outta dodge. 

 

[ _whiskey bottle, at thy bottom, be all my sins remember'd_ ]

Dean _fucking_ Winchester.

It shouldn't be this hard. Dean's beaten and bloody and goddamn crawling across Crowley's pristine white rug. The Rescuers might as well be Down Under for all the chance they've got of getting to him. 

“Come on Deano, at this point we're practically family. Or are you still banking on Sammy to bail you out of this one?” 

No answer. A glare can convey quite a bit though. 

“Tsk tsk. Blind devotion will get you nowhere you know, Sammy seems none too reliable these days.”

That gurgle sounded suspiciously like a protest. 

“Oh you're right, technically Sammy's innocent. _**You**_ started the Apocalypse. _A righteous man._ I've got to say I've met better.”

The crawling has stopped, a single syllable escapes the wounded man. That hope won't do. 

“I'm afraid Castiel won't be joining us.”

That earns him an eyeblink, torturously slow. Blood and sweat trying to glue green eyes shut. 

“Angels won't be breaking down the windows to rescue you. They can't even get in here, my boy. Ancient rules and old traditions. You should have done your research.”

“Well, Moose should have done his research. **_You_** should have killed me when you had the chance. I might even have been surprised enough to let you.”

The growing silence is worrisome. Normally Dean would be all over that one. A blank stare is what Crowley gets now. Time to pick up the pace.

“Take the deal, Dean. You're nowhere near as smart or ruthless as you think you are. But you are much more alone and in a lot deeper trouble.”

Dean's too pale. Blood loss probably, taking into account the state of his carpet. At least dark suits have the advantage of camouflaging expelled blood. 

“Just think about my offer, that's all I'm asking.”

Winchester's going to die before Crowley gets answer. For some reason, that's unacceptable. Dean passes out as Crowley's minions swarm to keep the hunter if not coherent than at least alive.

Crowley's finger twitches, he covers it up by straightening his tie. 

He tries very hard not to think about why he needs an answer so badly.


End file.
